CUT SCENE: Autumn, Year 99 of the Last Age
The village of Rode Pijler, recently renamed by its Legate, lay a bit north of the Plains of Eris Aman. Orcs had been raiding the region for weeks, and leaving the dead to Rise. Packs of Ungral were becoming a serious hazard. No one knew why the Orcs were raiding so heavily, but refugees had come to the village over the last few days, nearly doubling the population. Thankfully, it was not yet Winter and the recent harvest had been bountiful - and the Legate had not passed on most of the fruits of their labors, instead laying in stores for some unknown reason.
Warrior Legate Joris frowned. Turning to the mayor he had selected last year, after skinning the last mayor alive for reading, Joris said in Norther, "Elsa! Get your worthless hide over here." The words were harsh, but spoken softly. They were all the more menacing for it.
The woman curtseyed the Legate, eyes downcast, and stopped just outside his easy striking range, in case he was going to punch her again. Let him have to take a step to strike me today, she thought with some tiny measure of defiance, before forcing herself to change thoughts to ones of fear, subservience and loyalty. After all, she never knew when he was reading her mind. She wasn't sure he could, but his ability to tell what people were up to, or thinking, or feeling, was simply frightening.
He smiled then, which never boded well. "We have two heads for every one head I should own. I do not want them milling about, irritating my Blades. You will assign these people to different houses in equal measure. Any unwed woman of age from among the newcomers who has not yet been disfigured, you will send to my house, and you will make a note of those families which have no such maiden. They will receive an extra work detail. I expect company tonight and work details assigned by morning. Am I clear?"
Elsa replied quietly with as submissive a demeanor as she could muster. One answered the Legate when spoken to. "This woman understands the Warrior Legate." She almost said understands you again, but after the last beating she took, she had vowed never to make that mistake again. Joris liked his victims to speak about him and themselves in the third person. It amused him.
Walking as quickly as she could to distance herself from the Legate, Elsa was troubled. Most of their own fighting-age men had been killed or sent to some place called Steel Hill, and yet these newcommers seemed almost all to be adule males of able body. I will be lucky to find enough women to keep myself out of trouble, she thought with a shudder. Being "in trouble" meant a beating, or worse. Much worse. Beatings were much to be preferred.
Two hours later
Elsa had all the new people assigned new quarters. They'd been sleeping wherever they could for days. Elsa took a risk and did not assign anyone to the Gealics hovel, for they had the Red Shakes running through their household. The Legate would not care, and his instructions were clear, but Elsa considered the risk of beating worthwhile to spare some hapless family of refugees from probable infection and death.
She was happy though, in another way. She had found four who fit the Legate's description, and had sent them to his quarters as he instructed. They would have a hard time of things for a day or two, but would probably live if the Legate didn't get too drunk. Better them than her - she had a daughter to care for and a husband who grew angry whenever she was summoned to the Legate overnight. Those women, she didn't know - and they had no families of their own. Yes, better them than me, she thought sadly.
As she pondered this, however, her heart nearly lept into her mouth as she was grabbed suddenly from behind. Rough hands, rough treatment. She was dragged, with someone's strong hand over her mouth, into one of the houses. It was empty, the usual occupants busy working in the fields.
Within, there were some ten armed men. Armed! They had axes, and bows, and more! Oh by Shadow, no! They will get us all killed! The thought was a scream in her head, but as a dagger had been placed to her throat she made not a sound. Life under the Legate had taught her to control her whimpers.
One of the men stepped forward and said with a rather disarming smile, and a kindly, calm tone of voice that set her mind much at ease, "You are the mayor, yes? You are a servant of the Legate. Tell me, is there a back way to the Legate's house? A way to get there unseen by the Orcs at the gate or in the warehouse barracks?"
Usually there were only a couple orcs on duty, at the gates. The rest lounged in their barracks most of the day. Elsa nodded. She didn't believe this man would kill her, but the one with the knife at her throat was another matter and the increased pressure he put on the blade prompted her to nod quickly.
The kindly-spoken man smiled, and motioned the other to let her go. For the next twenty minutes she told them everything she knew. The man with the knife looked for all the world like he would relish nothing more than gutting her for being a "servant of evil". Talking was much better than dying.
Late Afternoon
The stage was set. The twenty rebels had snuck into the village with refugees, unarmed, then once the commotion had died down and the orcs less attentive, their weapons were smuggled back in, or over the wall on the back side of the village.
The plan was simple. Most of the men would take out the gate Orcs while simultaneously burning down the warehouse the rest were barracked in. They had a special alchemical mixture in ten wax-sealed bottles which, when exposed to air, somehow ignited and exploded, splashing and the burning liquid inside everywhere. One at each of the two windows, one at the door, and two in reserve in case the orcs within hacked their way through a wall or via the roof. Archers would do the rest.
But five men would go with their leader, Hargeld, to the Legate's abode. They would burst in and try to slay Joris before he could get his foul magic to work. The woman traitor had told them the direct path along the back wall to the Legate's bedchamber, where he spent most of his time, before they bound her. She was a victim, to be sure, but still a traitor who could not be trusted to just walk around until after the deed was done.
"Are we ready then, men? We have a village to free before Warrior Legate Christoffel's raiders get here in the Spring. The villagers will all die if this Joris bastard is still in power when they arrive - he foolishly doesn't fear Christoffel's ambitions, but our informant has served us well informing us of the raid."
Hardly breathing and as still as a grim statue, Aesmir the Seeker stood watching and waiting, his own long silloette merging with that of the building corner that half-hid his form.
Fight the Shadow in the Dark, my child, for in the dark the lesser shadows, jealous, plot also against it. Those were Aesmir's mother's words, and it was for her sake that he ultimately offered his services to this raid. This legate that we are going to take down, Joris or whatever his name is, seems to have a thing for forcing himself on virgin girls, he thought grimly. This situation reminded Aesmir of both his parents - Joris of his father, and his victims of his poor mother. His mother had taught him from a early age that if he was to fight the shadow, he must first learn its ways.
Ironically the climax of one of these lessons involved him being forced to watch his mother consume a meal laced with a herbal poison his father had made him concoct. His father had apparently tired of his mother's company.
He shook his head clear. Now convinced there were no sentries watching this area directly, Aesmir quickly gestured out of the shadow to the other five men back behind the last building, motioning them to come forward. They startled a little, then realised it was him and made their way quickly and quietly across the dirt street towards his own position. A slight smile formed on his hidden lips; a loner at heart Aesmir often forgot how just easily others lost him in the dark! They hadn't seen him until he motioned them.
Hargeld nodded as they approached. "I reckon I'd better take back my vote against you as pointman, 'Shadow-Walker'!" He gave Aesmir a strange look, a mixture of condescension and amusement completed with a gentle slap on the back.
Aesmir simply shrugged and gave Hargeld a questioning look, suggesting there was something he had forgotten.
"Okay, Smart-Ass, I admit that bundling swords up in firewood to get them into the village actually worked. While we're at it do you have any other 'brilliant' ideas that you want credit for?" Hargeld hissed this in a low voice with a little frustration.
Unfazed, Aesmir mildly answered in his gentle, matter-of-fact manner. "Seven's a luckier number than five." With that he stuck the middle and index fingers of his right hand between his teeth and blew gently. The note that was whistled was unheard by any of the men; its result was seen quickly, however. What they had thought in the dark to be merely a pile of sheepskins raised itself attentively, yawned, and then trotted over Aesmir. Staring expectantly up at his master, 'Ghost', a noble looking white hound, waited patiently for Aesmir's command. "With me, Lad."
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Truth. Heron had lost sight of the word. He wondered as to what was the truth behind his reason for being here. Many others fought the Shadow because they believed it the right thing to do. That surely wasn't his reason, though - mostly he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't truly care about the people in this town. They were weak, unwilling to die to stand up to the legate. The women would rather serve him in his bed chamber than die. His Einzel would have rather died. Einzel, where was Einzel? That was probably his true reason for being there. He wasn't even sure why he was still drawn to her. He had hardly known the woman. He had hoped to get to know her, but there had been no chance. No. There was no time for thoughts of her, of that, right now.
Heron returned to the present. He was hidden in shadows, not quite so well as the man he had come to know as Aesmir, but well enough. His clothing was tattered but there seemed to be little for it. That simply came of getting clothing off of your kills instead of having them made. He did not mind - they fit him well enough and that was all that mattered.
His hands rested securely on the hilts of his blades. They were not drawn as of yet, as the glint of steel could easily give them away this early in the game. His eyes darted in every direction, as if he expected an enemy from every side. Many a man grew uneasy under that gaze. His eyes were a light grey, and some went so far as to say it was the mark of the Shadow. In truth, he expected nothing; his training had taught him that was the only way to not be surprised. He simply followed along silently.
Relaxing his vigil only slightly, Aesmir slowly breathed in, taking a taste of the still air around him and then silently letting it out again before softly voicing his thoughts to the others. "If the good lady's words are to be believed, we are to find our 'friend', Legate Joris in a chamber at the other end of the Manor house to our point of entry. As I see it what we do at this entrance depends on both whether there are guards within the building and how much light does shine there in."
He paused there to give Heron, Hargeld and the others chance to comment. Aesmir, a tall placid man with pale blue eyes, very short fair hair and stubble, and a modest collection of scars, was dressed in what appeared to be well-maintained if slightly worn huntsman's leathers. Heron, however knew better - Aesmir's doublet for instance had a thin layer of metal scales sewn between the two layers of leather, whilst its raised collar concealed Aesmir's mail coif round his neck. His sword, 'Foe-Skewer', and its companion dagger hung off each hip.
Heron grunted. "We can't possibly know until we're inside. We must strike swiftly." He grinned, as that was the way he prefered it. Strike swiftly and fade away. I wonder how many of those joined with me will not live to see another day. "We storm in and move quickly and as quietly as possible. Any better ideas?" He grinned. He was ready to move forward.
"Storming in, quickly then quietly. An interesting concept, friend Heron," commented Aesmir with a slightly amused but dubious tone to his voice. His eyes briefly twinkled in the shadows. Aesmir understood the younger man's sentiments and even felt them himself, but experience had taught him to think twice before rushing in blind. "If a building is lit by torches or fires you can tell by looking for a slight glow under doors and between panels. If there is a watch on Joris' room you may well be able to hear them at the other end of the building. Heron, I'll support you if there be reasonable numbers. Guards in near darkness, however, I'd rather eliminate stealthily lest we alert the legate to our presence before we can close to battle with him alone. If there appear to be no guards better one of us sneaks in and does it with one blow, whilst others hold back to cover him and the building."
"Spoken as a true volunteer. Let us go then, so that you might use the shadow to bring death to the Shadow." Amusement was evident in Heron's voice. He understood hiding in the shadow. In the current Age, many were afraid of the dark, but Heron was not. He doubted any of the men now with him were either. These men had embraced their deaths long ago, as he had. It was not a matter of wanting to die so much as it was a choice of truly living. The people of this village did not truly live; they simply did not yet die. Too many men had bent a knee to the Shadow. Heron would not do so, not to anyone or anything. He had no illusions of nobility or righteousness. Had history been different, he would have likely rebelled against whatever other authority there had been.
"Naturally." Aesmir gave Heron a slight grin, then stepped back and disappeared completely into the shadows, Ghost with him.
A few moments later they appear to step out of an indirectly-connected shadow some hundred yards down the street closer to the legate's dwelling. Heron noted with some trepidation that he could not have moved so far so fast without being seen. It felt almost supernatural.
Having noticed no sentries Aesmir beckoned Heron and the others to come to him. As they did so Aesmir turned his attention to the back door of the house where Legate Joris resided. Is that candlelight I see coming from under the door crack, or simply a trick of the night? Either way, Aesmir walked cautiously over to the door, which he intended to listen at for sounds of any movement within. If there are no sounds of orcish guards coming from over towards the legate's chamber, then truly this Joris is a fool indeed..., he thought, perhaps a dangerous underestimation of the threat he faced.
Heron moved forward, instinctively keeping to shadows. The Humans here could prove to be as dangerous as any of the Shadowspawn. They would gladly warn the Legate in return for any kind of better treatment, or merely the hopes of surviving the Shadow's retributions. And so, Heron kept scanning back and forth, searching for any signs of movement. Once he had completed the short journey to catch up to Aesmir, he waited patiently. He tried to listen for movement within the building as well.
As the five Men hudled quietly around the door with Aesir and Heron, they too listened carefully. This end of the building shielded them from the noise of the village, although this time of day had been selected for many reasons, not least of which was the generally low activity level of the village in this part of the settlement when most of the people were tending fields or cattle. Hargeld had made that call, declaring that to do otherwise put undue risk on the victims of this all, the villagers.
Within, there was first a scuffling noise, and then the audible jangle of metal on metal, which Aesmir recognized immediately as armor - meaning, the Legate himself probably. Orcs rarely had armor. In seconds, however, there was the low 'thud' of a heavy wooden door closing. Whether this was the door to the greathall or the door to his private chambers was not clear.
Aesmir also noted the sound of wood scraping on stone. A chair sliding perhaps. Their information suggested that this would be the post of an orc guard, for two were usually to be found in the Legate's dwelling. Their exact locations, however, were not known to any but the orcs and the kitchen staff, who bunked with the Orcs lest they talk too much. No, Joris was too careful for it to be that easy. This meant, then, that the Legate himself was behind a closed door, either in the greathall or in his chambers, but not in the kitchen/storage area. Sad, really. This was passed on to the others.
Hargeld whispered softly, careful to mask any sharp syllables. "Well then. How to proceed? The Legate is known for his fire magics. I've heard that he can cast most of them in less than the time it takes a man to count to ten, but that this is difficult for him - he prefers to take his time so as not to fatigue as much. Just over half a minute. So we have to get him faster than that - we must keep him from holding us off that long." Hargeld glanced around, clearly unsure what to do then. He was known for his strategies - not his tactics.
"We move into the kitchen cloak'n'dagger like, take out the guards outside Joris' chamber, preferably without too much noise, then we go for the legate himself," said Aesmir dryly with a coldly confident glance towards the others. Noting the slight wavering of Hargeld and indeed some of the others at the obvious admission from his statement, he added a dismissive afterthought with a gentle chuckle, "Fire-magic? Pish! Worry more should this pig-legate squeal for more orc Blades to save his bacon! Besides, should he be stupid enough to cast a fireball inside this place, the fool only creates his own funeral pyre! See?" Aesmir pointed at the wooden framework of the hall and its thatched roof. Though probably the building with the most stonework in all of Rode Pijler, the hall had enough wood and thatch to quickly make it a blaze should a fire start unchecked anywhere but in the hearth. "Only question is, do we move just before or along with our boys attacking the barracks and gate?"
"Not so fast. We need to have a plan should the noise become too much. Who stays to deal with the orcs and who moves to deal with Joris. I don't care if it is suicide to use fire magics - that doesn't mean the legate wouldn't do it. And who knows what protections his magic might afford him?"
"I never said he wouldn't - I just reckon that, given the circumstances, the legate won't want to use his magic unless he's got no other options left. I don't think he's that stupid, but I admit I might be wrong," Aesmir replied with a shrug.
Swords and Sorcery. For all the wonder of magic, Aesmir firmly believed that it was a poor replacement for just being mundanely good at anything. Aesmir had the sense of mind to realize he was ever so slightly biased in this respect, but still... Use magic to do magic things, by all means - turning lead into gold and princes into frogs was fine, but fireballs? A good bowman could get two arrows off quite leisurely before a wizard had finished even chanting his incantations, if it were a strong enough spell to channel such power.
Leaning on his bow Aesmir considered Heron's other point, and then added, "Good point about the back up plan though. I would suggest we have at least two go for the legate rather than one, as he's the target, in case one fails to reach him. You and me perhaps?"
Heron grinned. There was a gleam in his eye. Heron would gladly pit his skill against a legate. He considered it good practice. He wished to scare the Shadow, develop a reputation for destroying evil. The very thought made him smile. "Fine by me."
Hargeld nodded, satisfied. "You two should be able to take the Legate if you can but reach him before he can barricade himself in. What if we move in, two of my men along the left wall go first, you two along the right wall hot on their heels. Then I and my other two men will come in right behind you and go where needed? We can try sneaking in, and if someone realizes we've been spotted he'll give a warcry to alert the rest - then it's speed over silence."
Hargeld looked nervous, clearly uneasy about attacking a Legate, even by surprise, but resolute in the task. Still, seemed clearly aware that he was no tactical genius.
"That would mean we go in right before the attack on the bunkers by the other Men," agreed Heron, Aesmir nodding in agreement. Take out the legate before he locks himself in, should be easy enough. He touched his blades in their sheath, working them to make sure they would come out smoothly when they were needed. The plan would be just fine for Heron. He was sure Aesmir and he would end up having to make a run for the legate, though.
At a nod from Hargeld, one of the men slowly opened the door a mere inch. With the door cracked open, the hinges were slightly exposed, and the man went to work with an oddly shaped bottle. It had a long, narrow spout and, with each sqeeze, a drop of some type of oil was produced from the spout. The hinges thus oiled into silence, the door was swung open further, enough to see within.
Inside, all was quiet. The Legate's door was open, but no sound came from within. Directly next to the door of the Legate's room sat an Orc guard on a wooden stool. He was half asleep, leaning against barrels just east of the legate's door.
Within the Legate's room was visible his fearsome animal companion, a wardog that was said to be possessed by demons and capable of smelling out the faintest of magic - but not, by all accounts, the simple charms the local healer and herbalist made for the people of the village. Not that this was an important feature at the moment. In any case, the dog seemed fast asleep and the orc had not noticed the door crack open.
Heron froze. He was unsure how to proceed. He was only thankful that he was not the leader here, that ultimately it would not be his call, his decision. He waited for someone else to move, to react, or to decide how to proceed. The orc was awake, and they would need to enter the structure to find Joris. That would mean the dog would probably soon be awake, too.
Aesmir took a long glance at what could be seen within and then turned back, leaning thoughtfully to the left of the door. He raised his icy blue eyes to meet those of the first of the two men Hargeld had nominated as the pair to go down the left wall, extending one finger, and glanced across to the other, bringing up a second finger. Having both men's attention he then pointed toward the sleeping orc. Two of you, one of him... Keeping his eyes keenly on the two men, Aesmir then brought the finger to his throat and drew it straight across, as though a knife slicing.
Then, his eyes met Heron's. Aesmir simply pointed into the legate's chamber before glancing to Hargeld and the remaining men. He whispered very quietly, being careful to soften any sharp sounds such as "s" or "f", "Count to ten after the group before you, then move."
To the first two men he continued, "When you're ready..."
Hargeld lookeds up at the sky, gauging the time of day. After a long moment, he nodded curtly, satisfied with the position of the sun. Then he whispered to the two lead men, "Go! Go silently as you can."
The two slid through the doorway, silently padding along the left wall as cautiously as they could. Fortunately, they move with the silence of cutpurses, and in just a few seconds they were a mere five feet away from the sentry, crouched behind the barrels to the orc's right. The orc seemed unaware, eyes fluttering closed, then snapping open! Closed. Then snapping open! He was almost asleep, but trying desperately not to. So far, so good.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... Aesmir silently counted down as he watched the first group's progress down the left. There was a brief half-second worry in his mind that they might make too much noise but the concern was swiftly put to rest. ...7, 8... He mentally prepared himself for his group's part, knowing that if he should make an ill step here they would all suffer, and even worse, the Men of this village as a whole would continue to suffer.
He could not fail, he would not allow himself to fail. The Time of Man was now! His time was now, and Aesmir was ready. ...9, 10... and go!
the wardog Ghost padding softly at his heels, Aesmir slid into the shadows to the right. He did not pass a glance to Heron; the other man knew his part as well as he did, and further rehersal was no longer needed in this drama. Knowing all this and using it as his faith and guidance Aesmir stalked down towards the legate's chamber, ready to enter and do the deed that must done as those ahead of him took the orc guard.
Heron grinned as Aesmir and Ghost moved forward, andfell in behind them. He attempted to move as quietly as possible, but he knew the silence would not last. Soon, someone would make too much noise, and they would be given away. It was the way of such things. It could even be me that causes it.
Heron forced those thoughts out of his mind. He refocused on the now. His hands rested on the hilts of his twin blades; he was ready to draw them, but he wanted to wait for the right moment. He did not want the sound of them sliding out of their sheaths or their shine to give him away.
Quickly and quietly, Heron and Aesmir moved into a partly concealed position. The half-asleep Orc failed to notice the movement, and the other two humans already in place stayed frozen. If the other orc, likely in the dining hall through the doorway along the left wall, had heard or seen them, he hadn't yet raised an alarm.
Meawhile, the Astirax continued to sleep, snoring softly, and the accursed Legate had not yet left his desk. A glance back showed Hargeld ready to move out, a questioning look upon his face. Surely his other man was behind him, out of view but also ready.
Heron slowed his pace. Ideally all three groups would be in position and be able to attack at the same instant. In reality, the chances of that happening were slim to none, but that would not stop Heron from trying. With the slowing of his motions, the pounding of heart in his own ears seemed almost deafening. The moment was almost upon them and soon combat would break out, the strange serenity of combat, raw terror and exhiliration and more, bound up in a few moments of crystal clarity...
The shadow of the large crate he had pressed up against obscuring his form, Aesmir pulled his long cloak round himself, covering his hands and letting its hem drape to the floor. Only then content that the steel's shine was hidden did he carefully draw his weapons under the olive drab wool of the cloak. It also deadened the soft scrape sound of blade across leather as they were drawn. All the while his ice blue eyes focussed unwaveringly on the back of the Warrior Legate's head jutting up ever so often from the chair in which the priest of shadow sat.
The lead rebel, Hargeld, tensed, axe ready. He had slung his shield so as not to bump it on anything, thus giving away their presence. The hall was silent, save for the soft scritch, scritch of the Legate's ink-moist quill upon dry parchment.
The first rebel to enter tensed, building up his courage, then lunged at the orc at the Legate's door! He came in with a hard overhand strike that took the orc in the top of his head, but the wound was not as solid as it could have been, and despite losing some blood the foul warrior did not even lose consciousness. Still, the look of surprise and fear on his face was almost comical.
The man didn't hesitate, bringing the axe around with a horizontal swing, keeping its momentum going, but the Orc scrambled desperately away, ending up with his back to the kegs on the opposite side of the door from where his resting spot had been - and placing him directly in the doorway! It also gave him time to draw his cruel Falchion-like Vardach, which he held in a stance of raw defensiveness. No fool, this Orc, he was biding time.
The rebel warrior moved to close again with the Orc, who had moved out of melee, axe again held high and agressive, swinging at the sentry with a downward diagonal slash, right to left. The Orc parried it with relative ease in an overhead deflection, then swung his own blade back around with a horizontal cut. The man leapt out of the way, into the main hall, the Orc's blade coming close enough to tear his sleeve.
Meanwhile, Hargeld and his warrior had moved in at the first sound of conflict, and spotting the melee on the floor, rushed in as quickly as they could. The Orc they had known was in the great hall took a second to realize what was going on, but then had stood and drawn his Vardach as the battle begun. And from within the Legate's chambers came the sound of a wooden chair skittering across the floor, no doubt flying back as the Legate himself stood suddenly, but what he would do next was unclear. The Astirax, in wicked possession of the body of a large wardog, barked once as well, showing that he, too, was now aware of the attack.
Damn... fate 'tis cruel... This silent curse passed through Aesmir's mind as he saw the events unfold before his eyes. This was not the way he would have wanted it, all things being ideal, but then it could be a lot worse. Fate dealt you cards and you played the hand you were dealt, fair or foul. At least one still had the choice of the time to show that hand. Whatever that meant. Aesmir had not the time to ponder this, though.
The time is now! his mind cried out, and his sword, 'Foe-Skewer' and its companion dagger swept up from under Aesmir's cloak. Aesmir howled a warcry as he charged for the open door to the Legate's chamber, seconds behind the lead rebel. Ghost leapt up and followed close at his master's heels. Aesmir cared very little for the orc who had blundered into the way of the door; the legate was what mattered. If the orc was stupid enough not to get of out Aesmir's way, then it was only its own fault when it tasted his steel.
Heron stayed close behind Aesmir and Ghost, but not too close. He decided that, at least for the time being, he would stay out of the orc's range. Surely they could dispatch the orc quickly enough without his help because, beyond it, the legate and that damnable dog still waited, and the legate was probably doing more than waiting. Heron drew his twin blades and made ready. Once the orc was down, he would need to be ready to rush the next room.
In the Dining Hall the Orc lept upon the table - a nice height advantage. He had his vardach out as well now, and likewise held it in such a way as to aid his defense. The rebel who had been crouched by the doorway now stood, blocking the doorway and threatening the orc with an aggressive stance. Let one Man hold off one Orc this day, and tis a trade that favors Men! thought the rebel, and the Orc seemed none too eager to charge the man through the doorway - it would hinder his long vardach, surely.
Meanwhile Jarvis, the Warrior Legate, picked up his shield with an angry cry. "Hold the entry, Orc! Hold or you shall feel my wraith as well!"
He need not have worried. He knew his job. As Aesmir charged him, the Orc fell back slightly, to a point just beyond the Legate's chamber door - only one at a time would be able to engage him, at least for a couple of seconds until the fight flowed somewhere else, as melee always did. He held his blade in a clearly defensive position.
The Astirax, in the Wardog's body, rose and moved up to the right flank of the Orc in the doorway, growling, prepared to attack the first Man to come through the door.
Angered by the greenskin's audacity, Aesmir lunged directly for the orc's heart. The orc, his cruel vardach blade swung down from its high guard, shrieked his battlecry. He was intent upon dashing Aesmir's sword aside and hacking into him.
A lesser man would have surely been cleaved in two by such a fercious counter, Aesmir simply caught the orc's war-maddened eyes momentarily with his own cold glare, and sneered at it in its own tongue. "The difference between you and me, Orc - I live and die free! You are just going to die."
With that Aesmir flicked his sword out of the vardach's path an instant before the clash of steel on steel, and stepped neatly aside to let the cleaver swing past him as he then twitched 'Foe-Skewer' back into a second thrust. As the orc's weapon smashed into the floor there was a howl of pain as Aesmir stuck the sentry between the ribs. The thrust drew blood, and was wrenched from the wound with a sickening tug from Aesmir. Panting and in obvious pain, the orc gaped in horror at its open wound, stunned. Aesmir swung his sword in again in a roundabout motiod. Stunned, the orc offered no defense as Aesmir neatly lopped its head from its body.
Standing over his fallen foe, Aesmir shouted aloud to everyone, "See how you who follow the Shadow are truly alone? We who fight for freedom at least have each other! Now with me, Men!"
With that he raised his sword more and charged into the room. The orc twitched slightly in a pool of blood to the side where it had landed, but Aesmir's charge was halted by the intervention of the Legate's wardog Astirax. The animal growled and moved in deliberate, intelligent fashion, placing himself enough in the way of the doorway that charging fully into the room would not be possible.
The rebel in the doorway to the dining hall stood in a clearly defensive stance. The other rebel moves up beside Aesmir, prepared to charge in should he get the chance. Hargeld and his other man remained in the back, ready to reinforce whatever needed reinforcing. Heron held his ground - he could not charge the legate, as the door was still blocked by the legate's dog. Aesmir had fared well so far, and Heron felt no reason to intervene - not that there was room for him to join the fray yet.
Jarvis shook his head and glared at Aesmir, his eyes barely containing the rage seemed to seep tangibly from the tainted Man. "You pathetic little rat! How dare you assult your better. Now you will burn under the hatred of shadow!" Jarvis pointed a hand at Aesmir and began to chant words of magical power. "Het branden haat van Schaduw!"
The astirax stayed in the doorway, dropping low and getting ready to avoid any attack sent his way.
Aesmir charged, intending to cleave the Legate's wardog and roll right over him. The wardog seemed to grin, then, and moved with an unnatural intelligence. Suddenly its defensive posture was gone, and the thing was a blur, charging up low at Aesmir's upper left leg. Having no defense to offer, Aesmir was caught on the hip, and the crunch of bone was clearly audible despite the noise of battle. The warm, wet slick that spread through his trowsers quickly showed that the blood loss was no small matter.
Aesmir lashed out, the shock of the sudden bite taking some of the power out of his now-wild swing, but the blade came down near the base on the top of the wardog's head, slicing half of it off in a diagonal line from above the left eye and passing down to exit through his right lower jaw. The floor was slick now with blood - his and the animal's.
Aesmir turned to look at the Warrior Legate, a grin spreading on his face. "Now it is your..."
His words were cut off by a sudden flash of pain. Agony. He was hot. Then burning. Then boiling. Blood poured then from his very pores, and he fell, spinning. The last thing he saw before his eyeballs exploded was Heron and the nearest of the rebel warriors writhing on the ground as well, screaming.
Or was that his own scream? He wondered this briefly, just before his heart exploded. He wondered nothing, ever again, for the spell of the Legate had boiled his very blood in a flash, leaving him and two companions smouldering and oozing, skin crackled open from the extreme and sudden pressure of vaporized blood.
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Ghost, the wardog companion, charged in over the bodies of the rebel, his master and the other wandering fighter, over the corpse of the Legate's wardog, and leapt for the Legate's throat, determined to protect his master. The legate, however, was now on fire - not real fire, but a magical flame that left him completely unaffected, yet charred the flesh of the dog immediately on contact.
Still, the faithful hound got the legate on the shoulder, bowling him over. As the dog lay twitching, dying from its horrible burns, Hargeld and another rebel burst immediately into the room and fell upon the Legate, the speed of the waves of attacking rebels overwhelming the Legate's defenses. The warrior's axe took Jarvis in the neck, the wound almost certainly fatal, but the magical flames burned him as well. He fell back, screaming, before passing out from the pain, but Hargeld saw nothing of this.
Instead, Hargeld thrust his blade down, piercing the now-prone Jarvis in the neck. The magical flames did not reach up far enough along his longer weapon to injure Hargeld as they had the axe wielder, however. In moments, the Legate was no more.
Turning to the one remaining rebel, who came in cautiously after dispatching the orc in the dining hall with nothing more than a scratch on his leg to show he'd been fighting, Hargeld nodded. "It is done, my friend. At such cost! But this day we count a victory. I can only pray to my grandfather's spirit that we have enough men left. Come, let us see upon the status of the ambush at the Orc barracks."
The two men moved quickly and carefully out of the house, and made their way to rejoin the rest of their men.
This is a writeup version of a play-by-post game conducted over at 
